Stories of Oblivion
by CrystalGlacier
Summary: A series of oneshots starting with the creation of the Hero of Kvatch. Literally.
1. Chapter 1: Humble beginnings

**AN: Alright, so I'm planning to make this a series of oneshots, as I seem to have troubles committing to a longer story. Sorry if I screwed with the gods in this one, I'm not all too familiar with the Elder Scrolls universe.**

**Although I do know that Talos is Uriel Septim's ancestor who ascended into divinity, which is much more than **_**you'll**_** ever accomplish, you lazy bum.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Oblivion. Or Bethesda. It's depressing, really. I might just go and cut myself.**

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Chapter 1: Humble beginnings

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Stendarr huffed. Suddenly creating a champion out of the blue was more hassle than it was worth. That was what reproducing was for, after all. "I think we should settle for a race and gender before working on anything else," he suggested.

"Naturally," Kynareth responded. "But I think we should wait until Akatosh and the others arrive before deciding anything."

A mere second after she had finished her sentence, the bright dragon form of the chief deity flickered into sight before them as was his prerogative, and slightly annoying habit. The other two gods acknowledged his presence respectfully.

"We are ready to begin," Stendarr said. "Where are the others?"

"Busy answering some prayers," Akatosh replied, the air around them vibrating with the deepness and volume of his voice. "Everyone should be here at any moment, save from Dibella."

The face of Kynareth furrowed in curiosity. "Oh? Why is that?"

"She is sulking because her chapel was disgraced and her priests got horrifically slaughtered by Umaril," Akatosh shrugged. "My chapel at Kvatch practically gets leveled to the ground along with the rest of the city, but I'm not complaining."

"That sodding Ayleid is _back_?" Kynareth exclaimed in disbelief. "Agh, some races just don't know when to stay _extinct_."

Her fellow deities nodded meaningfully.

"To Dibella's defense, she doesn't get a champion to fight her cause," Stendarr noted, shooting Akatosh a crooked glance.

"Our champion will fight the cause for _all _of us," Akatosh protested. "And for Tamriel, of course."

"But the fight against Umaril will also be a cause for all of us," Stendarr commented, somewhat thoughtfully. "Especially since he wrote a threat against us on the chapel floor with the priests' blood. That is actually rather concerning."

"Hmm, well, I suppose you have a point there," Akatosh admitted. "I'll make sure to write that into our champion's Fate."

Kynareth raised her Holy brows at this. "Wait, isn't messing with the Fate against the Rules?"

"Changing the parts of Fate that is beyond our control is against the Rules," Akatosh said with a nod of his reptile head, "but we _are_ allowed to add things in there."

Suddenly Kynareth looked excited. "Oh… _really_?"

"What are you planning?" Stendarr asked circumspectly.

"Oh, nothing," said Kynareth airily. "I just figured that – well – since it is our champion after all, we might as well have some fun."

Akatosh and Stendarr gasped. _"Kynareth…!"_

"_What? _Oh, come on you two! If our champion is to follow the Fate to the letter, the poor dear will be bored to death before even having a chance at stopping that raving madman from letting Mehrunes Dagon loose on Tamriel."

"You're not doing anything without us, are you?" came the pleasant voice of Mara as she faded into view. "I hope not as we too want to be a part of it." Along with her appeared all the other gods, even Dibella, although pouting and with her arms crossed. Akatosh was pleased.

"So, all collected at last," he exclaimed, utter delight etched into his voice and facial expression. "We really should get together more often, it happens so rarely these days."

The others nodded, though knowing that this was just something he said every time they met without actually meaning anything with it. "So," he continued, "race and gender first."

"Bosmer," was Kynareth's immediate reaction. She was very fond of their natural agility and litheness, finding them fitting traits for a champion. Julianos smacked his tongue at her suggestion and shook his head disapprovingly. "Fitting for thieves and assassins perhaps, not a champion," was his snarky comment.

The dragon god opened his mouth to intervene, dreading where this discussion was heading, but was promptly interrupted by Dibella, who huffed; "as long as it isn't an Orc, they're so _unappealing_, or a Dunmer – they used to be fine until that cursed Azura screwed them up with their red eyes and gray skin, they look like walking corpses."

With one eye twitching in annoyance, Akatosh again prepared to speak and was yet again intercepted by another suggestion which immediately received ridicule. And as he had feared, the argument had begun.

What about Imperials – they were good warriors and wonderful diplomats, hah, perhaps, but rather dull and self-important, and wasn't this just like you, Talos, to suggest an Imperial as you used to be one yourself?

I beg your pardon -!

Oh, but what about Nords! Strong, incredibly skilled warriors and resistant to frost! Really, a Nord? Would probably stagger around blind drunk half of the time, what kind of a champion was that? Besides, Redguards were much better warriors than Nords, better than any race, really. Pfft, Redguards were so fond of war that a champion of that kind would probably never shut the Jaws of Oblivion, but instead keep them open so he or she could keep killing Daedra until their dying breath. Argonians, then? Masters of water, resistant to disease! Right, because there were just so many seas in Dagon's plane of Oblivion, right? Goodness. Unless that Argonian had plans on taking a dip in molten lava, but that could not be good to a mortal's health.

And Altmer? The most intelligent of the races really, and the most potent in the use of magicka. Also the weakest against magicka, but that's not their biggest problem – someone desperately needed to remove the sticks up the asses of the sticks up _their_ asses, hur hur. Oh, how dare you - !

"Enough!" Akatosh' voice boomed over them, immediately rendering them all silent. He sighed. "I believe this is best left for chance. First, gender."

The chief god balled his clawed hand into a fist and opened it again, revealing a coin glittering in between splayed, godly fingers. "Heads, male. Tails, female."

Every pair of eyes was fixed on the coin as Akatosh flipped it. It twirled rapidly, almost fiercely, only slowing down at the peak of its flight before dropping back into the god's hand. He glanced swiftly down at it. "Female it is then. Alright, race might be somewhat trickier. We need a… a special dice for that, I suppose. One with ten sides, or rather, one possible outcome for every race."

And as ordered, a large, purple dice with ten sides appeared in his other hand. 1 meant Argonian champion, 2 for a Breton, 3 for a Dark Elf, and so forth.

"Why is the dice purple?" Arkay wanted to know. Akatosh shrugged.

"My favorite color," he explained.

"I thought it was red?"

"It _was, _but the Mythic Dawn sort of ruined it for me. Now hush, I need to concentrate while I throw this."

"Concentration hardly seems necessary for simply tossing a dice -"

"- _Quiet_, you!"

Arkay pressed his lips into a thin line, but did as the god instructed. With deep, godly concentration, Akatosh hurled the dice away, much more forcibly than he had intended, and the deities were left to chase after it until it clunked against the plateau and ceased its rolling voyage. They gathered around it, arching their backs and narrowing their eyes. Silence ensued for a long moment before Dibella exhaled the breath she had been keeping in anticipation out in a lamenting moan. "Oh, a _Dunmer._"

"Wonderful, now that's over with," Akatosh stated, sounding pleased. "Who will help decide what our champion will look like?"

"Oh, me, me!" Zenithar volunteered eagerly. He immediately proceeded to blow the poor champion's nose out of proportions, making it stand three inches in front of the rest of her face. Arkay and Stendarr instantly rushed to his aid, narrowing her head beyond what should really be _allowed_, parting her eyes so much they were practically located on her temples and enlarging them so much that the typical redness and bloodshot white of the Dunmeri eyes came to their full potential, which was a truly horrifying view. As her chin practically vanished into her jaw line, the trembling gods broke down into hysterical giggling, much to Talos' terrified dismay.

"No, no, no, no, no!" He gasped in shock. "No! Undo this _abomination_ at once! Our, I mean _my_, great-great-something-grandson is going to have recurring dreams about this person and I will _not_ allow that you scar his mind so horribly!"

This only seemed to encourage the gods in their creativity. They made her bald save from two long, blood-red braids which stood a stark contrast against her blue-gray complexion, the sight making Talos shriek with terror.

"Come on, knock it off!"

Her skin whitened into painfully bright luminescence and her cheeks sank into her face, giving her the gaunt appearance of a vampire. The gods now howled with laughter, their tears creating a sudden rainstorm above the Imperial City, much to the citizens' bemusement.

"You _guys, _this is so _immature!_" Talos hollered furiously. Dibella, as the Goddess of Beauty, could not stand looking at it any longer and turned away, whimpering. The deformation of their champion and deaths of her priests were just too much for her. Mara scowled disapprovingly.

"Really, how can you do this to our champion?" She asked sternly, looking profoundly disappointed in their behavior. "She'll never be able to find love looking like… _that_."

"Okay, you had your fun, now try to be serious about it," Akatosh ordered firmly, through rather amused. The gods muttered under their breaths, and gave the champion an ordinary Dunmeri appearance. Dibella thought she looked too plain and insisted they sexed her up a bit, but the rest of the group denied this as she would be in a prison cell opposing the one of a horny, lonely Dark Elf male named Valen Dreth. After they were done, they carelessly dumped her in her respective cell, and she fell unconscious into a heap.

"She's going to be terribly confused when she wakes up," Kynareth said, tilting her head. "And having neck pains from sleeping like that."

"Aye," Stendarr nodded. "Shouldn't we give her a name?"

"What's the point?" Akatosh sighed. "Everyone is just going to call her the Hero of Kvatch anyway. I guess we're done here… go and do your thing, Talos."

Talos cleared his throat. "Right. Uh, Uriel, my boy, when you see _this _face -" he pointed at the young Dunmer woman for emphasis "- this face right there, it means you're going to die. Horribly, in a damp, stinky sewer. Terribly sorry about that, but that's your fate. So… yeah. Good luck with that."

---

With a squeaky inhale of air, Emperor Uriel Septim promptly sat up in his bed, clinging to his sheets. Trembling, face sheathed in cold sweat, he wondered what in the Nine Divines he had just experienced, but with a sigh of relief swiftly dismissed it all as just a strange dream. He fell back onto his soft, warm mattress and descended into a sound sleep, blissfully unaware of his impending doom.

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	2. Chapter 2: A killer's call

**AN: Thanks for the reviews, Me and Dbird! I really appreciate your kind words.**

**This chapter contains a Breton nobleman who has claimed the title of Arena Grand Champion, his adoring fan and everyone's favorite assassin, Lucien Lachance.**

**Disclaimer: This is purely fan-made and I do not own Bethesda, Oblivion or any of its characters. **

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Chapter two: A killer's call

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Vivid, white sunrays reflected in the heavy chest plate enveloping the Grand Champion's torso and heavy boots against stiff soil announced his approach miles away. The young Breton had only recently earned his title, but he had already decided that this was something he had no desire in keeping – in truth, something he'd gladly give away to the first person who asked for it. No, he pondered if there weren't reasons as to why the Gray Prince offered so little resistance, other than being some filthy bastard son of a vampire. Now, the Grand Champion considered himself a fairly just and patient man, but even he had some limits – it was clear to him that he could not keep having this chatty load with him as it consistently made him contemplate –

"Oh, great and mighty Grand Champion! Is something wrong? Why are you so tense?"

- consistently made him contemplate suicide –

"Would you like me to give you a backrub? Or make you some food? I know a very good -"

- SUICIDE AND MURDER AND MURDER-SUICIDE.

"_No," _the Breton hissed through grinding teeth. _Gods give me strength!_

"Oh," mumbled the cone-haired little mer. "Well, alright then…"

The Grand Champion exhaled an exasperated sigh. It was a bright, sunny day and they had been plodding along the road to the Imperial City for quite a few hours, now crossing the bridge to the city. Grimacing, the young Breton took a moment to take its majestic stature into full view. The day he had walked out of the Arena in a final triumph and was met with a squeaky little Bosmer who adored him so greatly, desiring nothing but to worship the ground he walked on, he had felt very flattered. So flattered in fact that he had allowed the little elf to follow him around – he thought that, surely, it couldn't cause any harm, could it now? _Could it?_

His adoring fan sent him a worried glance. "I mean, are you sure? You look a little… is that vein in your temple supposed to be _pounding_ like that? It is a little unsightly. Oh, look! Another one just popped up on your forehead! Maybe you should go see a healer? I know a healer! I know many healers! Should we go and see a healer? You could -"

Without a second to think, furious electrical signals jolted from The Grand Champions brain to his mace arm, making him fling it at the little mer with an almost absurd amount of force. The impact knocked the air dead out of him, sending him flying over the edge of the bridge with a breathless scream.

It took several seconds after the muffled splash of a light body hitting water for the Breton to realize just what he had done. He paled as coldness washed over his abdomen.

_Oh, no._

Out of the blue, a most unsettling sensation struck him from above, like an ancient force suddenly became very strikingly aware of him and scrutinized him with two night-black eyes that burned into the skin of his pale neck. He slapped it subconsciously, feeling uncomfortable and naked as he swiftly looked around to check for any witnesses. No man, mer or beast was in sight.

_They didn't see nothing._

He began shaking.

_They didn't see nothing._

With a tight grip on his mace, he scurried through the gates to the Imperial City, into his home in the Elven Gardens district, locking the door securely behind him.

_Nobody saw anything._

The Champion proceeded into his bedroom, which was furnished only by a cupboard, a bed and a table, flinching as his mind imagined the little, painfully familiar face of his late fan floating in front of him, looking sad and terribly disappointed. _Why_, was its silently uttered question. _I only wanted to love and worship you._

He emitted a high-pitched shriek and swung his mace at the face, accidentally slamming it into the cupboard, the blow immediately disbanding it into a spray of wooden splinters and rusty metal bolts. Shaking and heaving for air, the Grand Champion dropped his weapon and crawled into bed, still wearing his armor. As he pulled his sheets over his head, his face cracked into a toothy, almost maniacal grin.

The face was gone.

The face was gone.

The Bosmer was dead.

Dead, dead, dead.

It was silent once more.

And with that, the Grand Champion closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

It only lasted for what seemed like mere minutes before his sleep was disrupted by someone shaking him brutally, feeling in his mind very far away and unreal and it was only a sharp thud and a sudden stinging jolt of pain at his left cheek that awoke him. The Breton's body contracted into a violent twitch before his eyes dashed open. Blinking through disorientation and a thick darkness, his gaze riveted to the face of a black figure bending menacingly over him. A sharp inhale passed his lips as his breath snagged in his gullet. The face grinned.

"I dearly apologize for striking you," it said, voice low and dark, "but I could not have awakened you otherwise. You sleep really rather soundly for a murd -"

The face did not manage to finish the sentence. In one loud, penetrating screech, the Grand Champion had leaped to the other side of side of the room, plucked up his mace and was now waving it threateningly in the direction of the unfamiliar, robe-clad and now utterly dumbfounded man. He had clearly not expected such a reaction.

"Who are you!?" the Breton demanded to know. "What are you doing in my home!? How did you even _get _into my home? Are you from the Guard? Did my mother send you?! Explain yourself at once!"

The man raised his hands in a disarming manner, looking amused. "In due time, dear child. In due time… first, an introduction. I am Lucien Lachance, Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood."

The young, terrified Breton gasped. "The Dark Brotherhood? An assassin? Are you here to assassinate me? I - I'm warning you, I won't go down without a fight!"

Lucien blinked. Then he rolled his eyes with a sigh. "Do you really believe I would announce myself as an assassin if I was here to kill you?" he asked, brows raised.

"You _could. _How am I supposed to know? I don't know how you Brotherhood guys do… the things that you do," the Breton defended. Lachance smiled indulgently.

"No," he replied plainly," no, you do not. Perhaps it is time that you found out…?"

"What?" The Grand Champion widened his eyes to emphasize his question. "What do you mean?"

"Like I said, I am a Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood. And you… you are a cold-blooded murderer, capable of taking life without mercy or remorse. The Night Mother has been watching, and she is most pleased."

He drew breath as if preparing to continue his speech, but was swiftly intercepted by an offended Breton. "What? _Murderer_? I admit I've done my fair share of killing to have become the Grand Champion," he began, stressing the two last words as to assure that the other man knew of his title, "but nothing comes even close as to cold-blooded murder. The Gray Prince _wanted_ me to kill him!"

Lucien's eyebrows vanished into the shadow of his hood. Really, the lack of short time memory with this one was astounding. "No, I'm not here for that. Have you already forgotten the little Bosmer you threw into the lake?"

"Oh." The Grand Champion frowned. "He doesn't count."

"Really?" Lachance tilted his head backwards, his voice laced with amusement. "Explain."

The Breton blinked. "Uhm… well, for one thing, it was _not_ in cold blood! There's only so much utter and complete _annoyance_ and frustration and knuckle-biting a man can take before he snaps!"

"Oh?" Lucien mused. "But isn't this something you have fantasized for a long time about? The final cease of the Bosmer's life, his presence? Hasn't your mind lingered on images of him 'accidentally' falling off Dive Rock, White Gold Tower or -" his eyes glimmered oddly "- the Imperial bridge?"

Champion grumbled. "That's… a good point you have there, Mr. Assassin Man," he admitted. "But you don't know. You don't know what it's like keeping him around you. I _do_, however, and I can tell you that it's the verbal equivalent of having someone poking you in the eye, over and over again, every minute of every hour, day after day after excruciating day! Would you not kill him, in a desperate act of preservation of your own sanity, and not only _not_ feel guilt or remorse, but _relief_? Relief that he is dead and gone and unable to pester you any longer?"

The assassin nodded in agreement. "Surely, I would. But then again, I don't need much motivation to commit homicide as I _am _a cold-blooded killer, precisely the thing you're trying to argue that you're _not._"

The young Breton faltered. "That's… another good point…"

"And also, if he bothered you so much, couldn't you just ask him to leave?"

"Well… I _did… _sort of."

"Sort of?" Lucien pushed.

"I didn't say it _directly. _It just seems so _mean,_" he added, in response to Lucien's questioning expression. "But I heavily _implied_ that his company was undesired. Like the time I told him to wait in a tavern in Chorrol and left without notice. Or the time I locked him into a prison cell in an Ayleid ruin. Or the time I accused him of conspiracy against the Duchess of Dementia and then proceeded to flee from the Shivering Isles to Cheydinhal under a false alias." He sighed. "It took him less than two weeks to find me."

"I see. But you still didn't tell him directly."

"No. No, I didn't." The Grand Champion made a grimace. "Alright, I may have killed him. But I didn't enjoy it. I don't enjoy murder, like _you_ do."

Lucien's lips twisted into a half-grin. "No? Then why did you become a combatant in the Arena, a premise built around fight to the death, if not to be able to lawfully revel in the suffering and death of others?"

The young Breton blinked, perplex. "I… I needed money… well, not really… it was more for the… glory… and… adrenaline… rush…" his voice trailed off and he fell silent. Then he looked angry. "What are you driving at? What's the meaning of all of this? Do I _have _to join this, this Brotherhood of yours?"

"Oh, no, no, no," Lucien replied, sounding amused. "Not at all, my child, it is just an offer. But I would -"

"I decline the offer," the Grand Champion interrupted.

Lucien cleared his throat. "I… see. I still think you should -

"I _decline_!"

The assassin sighed. "If you insist… I would, however, advise you to consider of it isn't with our family you belong after all. We are a unity of equal-minded individuals – a unity I feel you would fit neatly into, though you may be a bit rough around the edges. Here -" he pulled out a black dagger, ornamented with intricate, golden patterns "- please accept this gift from the Dark Brotherhood. It is a virgin blade, and it thirsts for blood. Should you reconsider, there is a man in the Inn of Ill Omen, which is located on the Green Road to the north of Bravil, named Rufio. Kill him, and your initiation to the Dark Brotherhood will be complete."

The Grand Champion hesitantly accepted the gift, eyeing it with caution and curiosity.

"May it serve you well," Lucien's voice purred. The younger man looked up, gawking as his gaze swept over an empty room. The assassin appeared to have just vanished into thin air, leaving him alone with a new dagger and a broken cupboard.

Two days later, Lucien was approached by the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, Ungolim, who merely informed him that he needed to pay another visit to his Breton friend.

"He killed Rufio already?" Lucien asked in astonishment.

"Quite," came the odd reply, before Lucien was handed a slightly ruffled sample of the Black Horse Courier. His eyes widened as they flicked down the page. Killed the old man the Breton had – him and everyone else in the inn and five Imperial Legion riders along the road to the Imperial City. Not even their horses had been spared. Lucien inclined his head. This was definitely something he had _not_ expected.

He did as he had been ordered and promptly re-visited the Grand Champion, finding him with a bottle of cheap wine in his living room.

"Hello again," the Breton greeted as the black-clad assassin drew near.

"Good evening," Lucien responded. "I take it you're interested, then?"

"Yeah, I had some time to reconsider…" the younger man tilted the wine bottle absentmindedly as he spoke. "I guess… the Dark Brotherhood didn't seem like such a bad institution after all."

"I'm glad," said Lucien with a slight smirk, "but I wonder why you felt it necessary to slaughter the entire inn?"

The Champion winced. "I… I didn't want to leave any witnesses," he explained.

"And the dead Legion horsemen?"

"Uhm… I guess that it was a way of apologizing for being so rude and inhospitable to you earlier."

Lucien's forehead lined. "That's an odd way of apologizing," he remarked.

"It's a _way_ at least."

The response made the assassin smile in a paternal and strangely jaded kind of way. "Why do you feel compelled to fabricate rational reasons behind your actions?" he asked. "Is it so hard for you to say that you murder simply because you think it's good fun?"

His question made the Breton stiffen and look down. "I… well, I guess… it… it's just not very nice, is it?" he whispered, perhaps more to himself than to Lucien. "For a nobleman. Taking pleasure in violence and murder… it's not something that decent people do. I mean… I've had a good childhood, plenty of friends and a few girlfriends and I suppose everything I could ask for… I don't really have a reason to murder."

"Ah." Lucien ambled closer to the younger man and placed a leather-clad hand on his shoulder. "My dear child," he spoke quietly, "you don't have to have a reason. It's just the way you are. You never have to justify your nature to me or to your Dark Sisters and Brothers – we understand it and embrace it, for we are all very much alike, a united body and a family. And speaking of nice, I can assure you that you will never find nicer, sweeter, more loving and sincere people anywhere else than in the Dark Brotherhood – not in the Fighters Guild or the Mages Guild or the aristocrat circles, not anywhere. You will see this for yourself when you arrive at our Sanctuary in Cheydinhal."

The young Breton looked up at him, enthusiasm gleaming behind his brown eyes. "Does it mean… I'm in?"

Lucien gave an unsettling and mutually pleasant smile. "Yes… my Brother." His voice grew soft and low. "Welcome to your new family."

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	3. Chapter 3: A night out

**AN: Wow, positive reviews! Thank you so much!**

**In this chapter, an interesting collection of characters and an unfortunate innkeeper are all gathered under the worn-down ceiling of the Inn of Ill Omen.**

**PS; To understand any of this, you need to have knowledge of the Main Quest line, the Thieves Guild quest line and the Dark Brotherhood quest line.**

**PPS; This is what you get when you are sleep deprived, slightly drunk and feeling lousy about a mediocre exam grade.**

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Chapter three; A night out

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It was with a baffled face that Manheim Maulhand slid his hand through his long, thick hair and let his gaze move from face to face inside the inn. If even one guest stumbled into the Inn of Ill Omen, with that kind of lost and confused face they always seemed to have, it could be considered a good day for his business, a few more guests would be outstanding, but this… this was just mystifying. He even had to go into the basement to get more tables and chairs. Not in over a _decade_ had he gone into the basement to get more tables and chairs. Something was clearly amiss.

Rufio was also a little bewildered at the sudden commotion, and seeming a little terrified of one of the guests, a peculiar fellow wearing black robes and a gloomy facial expression. He had tried to give Rufio several drinks and _apples_, of all things, but Rufio rejected them all. Manheim suspected the black-clad man to be… well… a _man's _man, so to speak, but he dared not dwell too much on that matter, as the guest gave him the willies.

Rufio coughed nervously. Unlike Manheim who could only make some vague and usually completely wrong speculations, Rufio felt absolutely certain that this was an assassin sent to kill him; an assassin with the _nerve _to try to give him very obviously poisoned food and drinks. Perhaps it was a twisted act of mercy on his part – urging Rufio to practically commit suicide before the assassin could give him a most painful death. There was little the man could do, though, when the inn was so crowded, especially with the presence of a very prominent Imperial Capain, to which Rufio was especially thankful. He hesitated – could he dare to approach the guardsman with the crime he had on his conscience? It was not as if he could smell it, was it?

Nevertheless, he mustered whatever courage he had and didn't have and walked up to the captain, who was sitting next to an unfamiliar, slightly cross-eyed man. "Uh-hm, excuse me -"

The Imperial snapped his face to him, thunderclouds sparking behind his steely blue eyes. "Are you the Gray Fox?"

Rufio blinked. "I… no -"

"Then what the hell makes you think I'm interested in talking to you?" he barked, returning his concentration to his drink. The other man, merely known as A Stranger, sighed.

"There, there, Lex," he comforted, albeit with a slight sneer. "I'm sure you'll catch the Gray Fox one day."

Hieronymus Lex only grumbled in response.

A little further away sat the Hero of Kvatch with what appeared to be a Dunmer admirer clinging to her neck. She looked miserable, swaying slightly in her seat with a squinted eye and a bottle of Surilie Brother's finest in her hand.

"What's wrong with men?" she asked out loudly, slightly to the innkeeper but mostly to herself. "Here I go around and close Oblivion gates, save people's asses, do menial tasks for just about anyone who asks me, bribe them into liking me and not one of them – not one, not even that twat Farwil, will let me court them! Let alone will they court _me_! What more could they possibly _want_ of a woman? I mean – I'm not a _bad _looking woman, am I?" her voice was suddenly tinged with uncertainty.

"I have never seen truer beauty than when I first laid eyes upon you from my cell," said her Dunmer admirer in response, earning an angry glare.

"Just shut your hole, you filthy ashborn," she hissed at him. "I've told you countless times before; _I'm not sleeping with you. _Not even if you were the last breathing thing in Nirn, for I'd rather turn to necrophilia."

Moving her eyes to a point ahead of her, she decisively slammed her hand on the table and concluded; "Nay, I'm in truth an absolutely fetching woman – _fetching!_ – and all I get are creepy comments on my 'nimble fingers' by random strangers and a dirty come-on from Valen Dreth."

"I'm sitting right next to you, you know," aforementioned Dark Elf said in annoyance, still with his arm draped over her shoulders.

"I _know_!" she lamented, eyes rolling dramatically. "It was bad as it was, being in that prison for no apparent reason at all, and then you had to go and make use of that 'favor' the guard owed you and get us put in the same cell."

"Quite lucky I was put in your cell and not the other way around," Dreth commented thoughtfully. "Though I'm _sure _we could have found some way to kill time, hmm?"

"If 'killing time' means slapping you around all day, then certainly," she snapped, the insult immediately sending Valen into a frenzy.

"You ungrateful harlot!" he spat, sounding almost astounded. "As if you ever deserved anything else than rotting all alone in that little hole until your -" the rest of the incensed rant was promptly drowned by the Hero of Kvatch stuffing her fingers into her ears, singing, "La, la, la, I-CAN'T-HEAR-YOOOU, LA, LA, LA, LA, LA-AAA!"

A few tables away, Martin Septim observed the hullabaloo, cringing inwardly. He was ever grateful for being saved from Kvatch, but he suffered in the Hero's companionship as she clearly had no clue of social norms and conventions whatsoever, somehow reminding him of the time he was worshipping Sanguine. At that moment, he was having a somewhat dreary conversation with an Altmer, who was dressed rather regally in a blue robe. Martin wished to stay as clear of discussions of the Divines and Daedra worship as he possibly could since it seemed like something his conversation partner was at least mildly obsessive about.

"So, you said you were an author?" Martin asked courteously.

"Indeed," the High Elf replied, with a slight nod and a jaded trait about his eyes. "Of four volumes, to be exact."

"Really? And what are these volumes about?"

"Oh, I shouldn't really tell -" the Altmer took a moment to scrutinize his fingernails "-but they revolve around a _very_ specific Daedric Prince and His work, and rather profoundly so I might add."

Martin gave a nod while exasperatingly noting that it had only taken two questions before the subject had been wringed back on Daedra lords. "I see." His face lined in a thoughtful frown. "Four volumes… sounds unfamiliar to me. I'm guessing they're not about Sanguine."

A brow rose curiously on the Mer's forehead. "No, they're not. Hm. I must say, I would never have mistaken _you_ for someone who worships Sanguine."

"Oh." Martin's cheeks colored slightly. "I don't worship him anymore. I'm a priest of Akatosh now."

"Is that _so_?" The Elf thoughtfully stroked his thumb along his stubbled chin, leering uncannily. "A priest of Akatosh, you say? I think we might have plenty of interesting things to discuss. What say you come with me back to my home for a nice chat and some, ah… red-drink?"

"Red-drink? What's that?"

"You'll see."

A chilling shudder crawled down Martin's spine. "No thank you."

While all of this played out, Manheim was experiencing a crisis. No, an absolute _catastrophe_.

He was running low on booze. Actually, there was only one bottle –

"More!" demanded Captain Lex, disapprovingly swinging an empty mug in his direction. Manheim sighed. Make that _zero _bottles of beer left. After serving the captain and the Stranger, who shared a toast for the capture of the Gray Fox, he scurried into the basement looking for something,_ anything_, that contained alcohol and was drinkable.

It was with a sudden spark in his eyes and a snap of his fingers he remembered the old barrel the previous owners had left behind in the inn. It was sheathed by a thick layer of dust and cobwebs, untouched and left forgotten for many years, as was any liquid left behind in it. Manheim questioned whether it was such a good idea to serve it to his guests, but they were in such a good _mood_, and with the heated, drunken fighting of the Dunmer couple and ceaseless, aggressive advances on poor Rufio by the willies-giving man, it somehow reminded him of Skyrim and he hadn't had the pleasure of serving so many guests in a very long time.

He fetched himself a mug and tapped some of the barrel's content into it. The liquid was unlike anything he had ever seen before, colored a deep, transparent bronze while shimmering silver on the surface, emanating a spicy odor that prickled his nostrils. Manheim hesitantly lifted the mug to his lips, taking a nip of it. Then another one. His eyes widened. This stuff was actually really good.

Now eager, he assembled several empty bottles he had lying around and filled them with the strange beverage, taking them upstairs. His guests didn't appear fazed by the lack of traditional drinks and they accepted and paid enthusiastically for it when they found that it was rather tasty, with the exception of the odd, black-clad man who seemed suspicious of it.

"I have much work to attend to tomorrow," he excused. "Wouldn't do to have a terrible hangover, I'm sure you understand."

Over the lapse of the evening, the guests grew giddy and extremely friendly to one another, giggling into each other's ears and sharing toasts to the honor of the Nine, Azura, the innkeeper, underpants, their mothers, beer, the Surilie Brothers, cliff racers, the Empire and what have you.

"You people," snuffled the Altmer author known as Mankar Camoran, with an arm firmly clamped around the neck of Martin the priest, "you people are _great_. You'll _all_ ascend -" a short pause as he forgot what he was saying, "you'll _all_ ascend with me to _Paradise_! Well, not _you_," he sneered to the black-robed man, who had kept his distance from the rest of the party. "We don't like shy people."

The man rolled his eyes in response, and continued what he was doing; whispering a magical enchantment into a ring.

"Me too?" the Hero of Kvatch asked, doe-eyed.

"You too," Mankar nodded and latched an arm around her shoulders, squeezing both her and Martin into his armpits. "Bring your friends and family."

"Pssst," whispered a fickle Hieronymus Lex to the Dark Elf Valen Dreth. "_Psssst… _hey… have you sch… have you seen the Gh… the Ghurr…" he could barely contain his laughter, "the _Gay_ Fox?"

He snickered hysterically, receiving a snubbed glance from the Stranger. Manheim flinched.

"Ain't nothing wrong with being gay," he quickly stated, placing a hand protectively on the shoulder of the dark-clad guest, who just stared at him in blank confusion. After the innkeeper left him to attend to another guest's need, he let out a weary sigh and rolled his ring between agile fingers.

Lucien Lachance had never imagined that killing one old man would take this amount of time and energy, but since the Dark Brotherhood had experienced difficulties in recruiting lately, he had been forced to take on the contract of killing Rufio himself. Seeing the beverage the innkeeper was selling to his guests had given him an idea, as it was one that he as an assassin had encountered – and used – many times in his career to induce trust and friendliness with his marks. It was called Gruhle and was famous amongst thieves, spies and assassins for its ability to cloud people's judgment and common sense. He decided it was safe to execute his plan by the time Rufio and the young priest loudly began singing "Fair Argonian Maiden".

"Everyone!" Lucien called out, drawing the other guests' attention. "I feel like playing a little game."

"Oooh, what kind of a game?" asked the Hero of Kvatch, sounding eager. Lucien's lips curled into a smile.

"Well…"

---

The Hero of Kvatch groaned. Her brain had dissolved to mush and was currently trying to rearrange itself back to its original state, though rather amateurishly as she felt as if she could hear the chirping of birds through her skin. She tore her eyelids apart, and they fluttered for a few moments before she could fully open her eyes. It was only when she let her gaze glide down her own form, which was wrapped in Martin's robes, and over the other guests in the inn that she remembered what had happened there the previous night.

Everyone was having a jolly good time – so much that she even found herself liking Dreth – and then that odd, hooded man had suggested they play a game of something he called "Copycat". The gist of the game was that everyone needed to choose a partner they would then trade outfits with and try to imitate. It was her and Martin, Hieronymus Lex and Dreth, the hooded guy and Rufio, A Stranger and –

A sudden, infuriated screech started her, and her jaw dropped as she saw who was behind it. _By Azura, _she thought, marble-eyed. _It's him! It's the Gray Fox!_

"The Amulet of Kings!" he wailed, frantically searching a dazed Stranger who was wearing Mankar Camoran's robes. "Where is it?!"

_Wow. Just bloody wow._

The Hero of Kvatch stared, mesmerized at his appearance. She had not expected the Gray Fox to be a High Elf, but that man had the cunning of a hundred starving crows, that was for damned sure. And _he _had stolen the Amulet of Kings from the assassins? The nerve of that man!

A pained moan sounded from her side, and she looked down at Martin who had just been brought back to life from his drunken unconsciousness. Her clothes was an ill fit for him as a bit of his stomach gleamed from under her shirt and he was unable to keep his arms close to his sides. Gold glimmered in the chain he had around his neck, which she thought was odd, as she had not been wearing any jewelry. He gave her a long, confused, squinted stare, before moving his gaze to the cowl-clad Altmer, frowning in disbelief at the sight.

"Is that…?" he began crustily, his voice hitching in his throat as he saw who the Gray Fox was groping. "Oh, my goodness!" he gasped. "I recognize him! That's Corvus Umbranox, the Count of Anvil and husband to the Countess! He just _disappeared_ ten years ago. Where has he been all this time?"

It was at that moment the Hero of the Kvatch noticed that the golden chain around the Septim's neck ended in the Amulet of Kings, hanging limply against his back. She parted her lips to inhale a shocked gasp, but was started at a sudden sharp thud of a flat hand against bare skin.

"Answer me, you filthy thief!" hissed the Gray Fox to Corvus. "You're wearing my clothes! I _know_ you have the Amulet of Kings! Where is it?!"

The past Count just gawked at him as he raised a hand up to a swollen, ruddy cheek. "You're wearing _my _clothes!" he gasped. "And the Cowl of Noctu -" the sentence ended in an abrupt silence. "Uh-oh."

"'Uh-oh?' What do you _mean_, 'uh-oh?'?"

Corvus bit his lip and opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the booming cry of an insulted Imperial male.

"You!" Hieronymus Lex roared, aiming a shivering index finger at the Altmer while pressing the palm of his other hand against his forehead. "_You_! Gray Fox! Oh, how long I've been waiting for this moment! How satisfying the metallic click will be when I cuff your hands and drag you back to the Imperial court! Gray Fox, I hereby place you under arrest! Come quietly, or else I'll be forced to take drastic measures!"

"Let's get the hell out of here," the Hero of Kvatch whispered to Martin Septim before she seized him by his wrist and ran out of the inn as the verbal quarreling between the Gray Fox and the Captain was building up to a fiery, violent battle.

"What's going on?" asked Martin, still dazzled and struggling to keep up while wearing her pants.

"I think we won," she puffed in reply.

"Won? What do you mean?"

"Haven't you noticed? Your jewelry! We have reclaimed the Amulet of Kings!"

Martin looked utterly shocked at the revelation, and even more so when he adjusted the Amulet to a correct position around his neck and inspected it. "By the Nine!" he gasped. "The Amulet! How can this be?"

"The Gray Fox was searching for it!" squealed the Hero enthusiastically. "He must have stolen it from the assassins!"

"The sticky fingers of that man know no bounds!" Martin exclaimed, albeit sounding impressed. "Akatosh bless him! We have to go back to Jauffre!"

Only after they had run along the road for quite a distance until they vanished out of sight, did Lucien feel safe to leave the bushes he had been hiding behind. Straightening his posture, he elegantly brushed dust off of his robes and fished his little ring out of his pocket with a victorious smirk. He could hardly believe how smoothly his plan had worked out. After luring Rufio into wearing his clothes, he had also insisted upon him wearing his ring, which was magically enchanted to deal shock damage to anyone who would put it on. Suffice to say, Rufio had suffered a quick death and Lucien had carried his corpse into the forest and retrieved his black robes.

Lucien breathed a light sigh. Ungolim would probably scold him for using this amount of time on one very simple contract, but he could at least not criticize him for lack of ingenuity.

_The Night Mother must be pleased._

He gave a slight, satiated smile at that thought before calling for Shadowmere and riding on her back towards Fort Farragut.

---


End file.
